When I told my fiancé I poured Listerine on my vulva, he asked through muffled laughter, “Are you stupid or crazy?”
Neither. I was desperate. Desperate to the point of madness. For two years I was repeatedly diagnosed with yeast infections that left the whole of my nether regions itchy, irritated, swollen, and often feeling like they were on fire. I was at the end of my rope.Itchy, Irritated, Inconsolable
My mother got lots of yeast infections when she was younger, so when I first became afflicted, doctors diagnosed my problem as hereditary, saying I was simply more susceptible to the overgrowth of yeast. (Three out of four women get a yeast infection at some point in their life, so it’s pretty common.) But when the infections started coming just as regularly as my period, my mother said, “God, even I didn’t have that many.” Im part of a gossipy Portuguese family, so it was only hours before almost every female in my extended family knew about it. For Christmas that year, I received what my aunt referred to as the Itchy Vagina package. It was stocked with tubes of Vagisil, medicated vaginal wipes, pads. I was less embarrassed, more thankful. My stockpile was running low.
At that point I had taken every over-the-counter medication available. Truthfully, I could have been the poster child for Monistat. The pharmacist seemed to think so—his eyebrows raised as I approached the counter with a basket full of vaginal products for the second time in a month. I had gone to see my primary care doctor, nurse practitioners, and gynecologists. I did everything they told me to. I ate yogurt. I popped probiotics. I never sat too long in my wet bathing suit. I wore only cotton underwear. At night I lay naked from the waist down, spreading my legs wide imagining air flowing in and out of me, fanning the disease away.
The infections had also infiltrated my sex life. Sex was no longer about pleasure—at least, not the pleasure I was used to. My doctors told me to stay away from sex, as it would only irritate the infection further (the vast majority of yeast infections aren’t contagious), but like an unruly kid who plunges a pencil under her cast to satisfy that burning itch, I turned my fiancé’s penis into my own personal scratching stick. I no longer wanted the slow, rhythmic hip thrusting I typically preferred. Every time my fiancé and I got under the sheets, I wanted it hard and fast, screaming for more. I never orgasmed, but afterward I fell asleep feeling satisfied.
But this—like almost everything I’d tried to relieve the itch—eventually proved more painful than pleasurable. My yeast infections were getting worse, and my poor vagina seemed like it would never heal. Still I scratched and scratched until my skin was raw. Until I got cuts and bled.
One day, feeling helpless as I sat in the bathtub for the fourth or fifth time that week with tears in my eyes, pressing a cold cloth against my burning skin, I looked up and saw the blue-green Listerine bottle sitting on the vanity: “Kills 99% of bacteria.”
Yeast infections are fungal infections, not bacterial, but I didn’t care. I imagined microbes of bacteria floating through my vaginal canal, clinging to the walls. I imagined them multiplying by the thousands, creating metropolitan cities of red, rashy skin. Skyscrapers of itch. Smokestacks of fiery burn. I grabbed the Listerine and poured.
Spoiler alert: This was not a good idea. It was about five seconds before I screamed in even worse pain than I could have imagined, turning the faucet on full blast. I cursed and bit down hard on my tongue until the burning was over.Finding Relief
You’d think pouring mouthwash on my burning vulva would constitute a turning point, but it was still a little over a year before I was finally referred to a vulva specialist. She ran her gloved finger around my labia as all the doctors I’d seen had done before. I tried not to flinch. When she was done, I pried my legs out of the stirrups, and sat straight, gloomily awaiting another nonanswer or ineffective home remedy I’d already tried a thousand times.
The first words out of the specialist’s mouth were that she was sorry for what I was going through—she couldn’t imagine what it must be like to live with so much pain. It was the first “sorry” I heard from a doctor that felt genuine. Instead of talking about yogurt or wet bathing suits or unscented soap, she asked me detailed question after question. She looked into my eyes and listened to all my symptoms. “You have BV—bacterial vaginosis. BV has similar symptoms to a yeast infection, which is why you’ve been poorly diagnosed all these years. I wish you would have seen me sooner. You could have saved yourself a lot of pain.”
I was too stunned to speak. “Apply the cream here and here, in this motion,” she said, referencing a drawing she made with a ballpoint pen. Thats it. That was all I needed to do to end the nightmare between my legs.
I quickly came to call the prescription my miracle cream because with it, my vagina healed. I don’t know why it was the first time I’d heard of the cream, or why no other doctor had thought to test me for BV. Perhaps in all the doctor appointments I’d gone to, I was too eager to accept the easiest diagnosis. Perhaps it would have been better to make my doctors listen to my voice, to see the pain in my face. With the right diagnosis, I finally found relief. When my cousins asked, I said my vagina was healthy and meant it. I no longer received Itchy Vagina packages from my aunts. I stayed in my bathing suit as long as I wanted. I threw away the disgusting yogurt.
Today the Listerine incident is a funny story I retell for my girlfriends. They think it’s a riot every time. And I admit, it is a little funny now that the Listerine bottle is safely back on the vanity. I write this story not as another funny joke to tell at parties, but as a rallying cry for women to speak up to their medical providers. For too long I trusted the men and women in front of me. I listened to their prognosis before I’d even finished uttering my symptoms. “Is this common?” I would ask, my voice getting quieter every time. The doctors would shrug their shoulders, offer me a sympathetic smile, and ask me which pharmacy I used. Time and time again, I believed in their expertise and denied my body.
It wasn’t until the specialist looked me in the eye and really listened that I realized that question wasn’t important. It shouldn’t matter that my pain was common. It was unbearable and I didn’t—shouldn’t—have had to grit my teeth and accept it. What I needed was to listen to my body and advocate for myself. And to stay away from the Listerine.
Will Listerine make your dog sick?
Final Thoughts: So when we look at the figures involved, there is indeed a very small risk of xylitol toxicity if a dog manages to open a bottle of doggy mouthwash and drink a considerable amount, especially if they are a small dog.
When used correctly and diluted in your pet’s water, doggie mouthwash is safe, just make sure your pet doesn’t get ahold of the whole bottle. As with toothpaste, do not use human mouthwashes on your dog.
A: The herbal ingredients in Listerine (thymol, eucalyptol, menthol, methyl salicylate) have both anti-fungal and anti-itch properties. This might explain why applying Listerine to the scalp or the skin can relieve dandruff or itching.
Can you use Head & Shoulders on a dog?
In short: nope. You should not use human shampoo like Head and Shoulders on a dog. … “Ingredients within these products can cause skin irritation as they are not designed for dogs. They can alter the skin pH and make it more likely for dogs to develop dry and itchy skin.
But this—like almost everything I’d tried to relieve the itch—eventually proved more painful than pleasurable. My yeast infections were getting worse, and my poor vagina seemed like it would never heal. Still I scratched and scratched until my skin was raw. Until I got cuts and bled.
It wasn’t until the specialist looked me in the eye and really listened that I realized that question wasn’t important. It shouldn’t matter that my pain was common. It was unbearable and I didn’t—shouldn’t—have had to grit my teeth and accept it. What I needed was to listen to my body and advocate for myself. And to stay away from the Listerine.
One day, feeling helpless as I sat in the bathtub for the fourth or fifth time that week with tears in my eyes, pressing a cold cloth against my burning skin, I looked up and saw the blue-green Listerine bottle sitting on the vanity: “Kills 99% of bacteria.”
At that point I had taken every over-the-counter medication available. Truthfully, I could have been the poster child for Monistat. The pharmacist seemed to think so—his eyebrows raised as I approached the counter with a basket full of vaginal products for the second time in a month. I had gone to see my primary care doctor, nurse practitioners, and gynecologists. I did everything they told me to. I ate yogurt. I popped probiotics. I never sat too long in my wet bathing suit. I wore only cotton underwear. At night I lay naked from the waist down, spreading my legs wide imagining air flowing in and out of me, fanning the disease away.
Spoiler alert: This was not a good idea. It was about five seconds before I screamed in even worse pain than I could have imagined, turning the faucet on full blast. I cursed and bit down hard on my tongue until the burning was over.Finding Relief
FAQ
Can I put Listerine on my dogs skin?
Is Listerine good for yeast infection?
Can you put Listerine on a dogs hot spot?